cleave it, as a swimmer does the sea. He held himself aloft, wavered
this way and that with the wind, and at last, like a great fledgling,
he learned to fly.

Without delay, he fell to work on a pair of wings for the boy Icarus,
and taught him carefully how to use them, bidding him beware of rash
adventures among the stars. "Remember," said the father, "never to fly
very low or very high, for the fogs about the earth would weigh you
down, but the blaze of the sun will surely melt your feathers apart if
you go too near."

For Icarus, these cautions went in at one ear and out by the other. Who
could remember to be careful when he was to fly for the first time? Are
birds careful? Not they! And not an idea remained in the boy's head but
the one joy of escape.

The day came, and the fair wind that was to set them free. The father
bird put on his wings, and, while the light urged them to be gone, he
waited to see that all was well with Icarus, for the two could not fly
hand in hand. Up they rose, the boy after his father. The hateful
ground of Crete sank beneath them; and the country folk, who caught a
glimpse of them when they were high above the tree-tops, took it for a
vision of the gods,--Apollo, perhaps, with Cupid after him.

At first there was a terror in the joy. The wide vacancy of the air
dazed them,--a glance downward made their brains reel. But when a great
wind filled their wings, and Icarus felt himself sustained, like a
halcyon-bird in the hollow of a wave, like a child uplifted by his
mother, he forgot everything in the world but joy. He forgot Crete and
the other islands that he had passed over: he saw but vaguely that